The Riddle of Alabaster Royal (38 page)

Jack noted the incredulity in the tone. How could he blame him? But it was as well he'd not mentioned the exotic Mrs. Nilima, and that astonishing house; Sir Kendrick would certainly have thought he'd gone right off the road! He said, “Not the bowl itself, sir. But what's on it, I think.”

“What's—
on
it? But the only thing on it is a very damaged painting of your unfortunate inheritance.”

“I think the damage was deliberate, Papa. And I think Mr. Jones was trying to leave a message.”

“No,
really,
my dear boy! You
must
try to be reasonable about this. If the fellow wanted to leave a message, all he had to do was
tell
someone! Not go about ruining perfectly good bowls and—”

“And several paintings, sir.”

“You don't mean it!” Leaning forward, Sir Kendrick asked, “Can we see them if we go to his house?”

“Well, no. They've all been stolen or—sold.”

“They have? I … see.” The baronet sighed and sank back again. “Now, John, don't you think this has gone far enough?”

“There's a snuff jar, sir. I have it, and it bears the same scratch marks. I can show you!”

“Hmm. Well, I'd like to see it—later. But, even if it is similar, what does it prove? And my earlier question still goes unanswered, you know. Why didn't Jones simply deliver his message in person, instead of all this rigamarole and roundaboutation?”

“Perhaps because he wasn't sure of his facts. Or perhaps because he only had part of the puzzle. He told his daughter that there was evil here, and—”

“Oh, for heaven's sake! People have been mouthing that fustian for years! Ghosts and goblins and disordered minds, and—” Sir Kendrick looked embarrassed and said, “I'm sorry, my boy. I don't mean to imply—”

“It's all right, sir. I know that since Vitoria my head has played me false at times. But, suppose Mr. Jones had discovered another kind of evil here? Something that had nothing to do with the supernatural? Something so outrageous that he dared not speak of it or make any accusations until he had all his facts? Which may have been—the very day he died.”

“But—
what
facts? What did he suspect? What could possibly be so important about a bowl and a jar and a few paintings, to justify thievery and violence and at least two brutal killings?”

Jack hesitated, then he asked slowly, “Sir, this gentleman who was interested in buying Alabaster. Did you ever meet him?”

“No. Felton did. Twice. As I told you. Why?”

“Has he approached Felton since?”

“Not so far as I'm aware. Probably came down and took a look and laughed all the way back to Town.”

“But he wanted to build an orphanage here. Is that correct?”

“I believe that's what Felton said. Why on earth—”

“Sir—forgive me. I know this must sound wild, but—if what I suspect is true, the man's a heartless, scheming murderer.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Sir Kendrick, dismayed. “No, really, John! You simply cannot fling such frightful accusations about! Unless— Have you any evidence this time? A shred of proof of what you say?”

“Not really, sir. Enough perhaps to alert my General, but—”

“
Wellington?
Do you count it a—a matter of national importance, then? Something to do with the war? Spying, or such? Or—Jupiter! Have they put you on active duty again?”

“No, no. Never worry, Father. I'm not investigating for Lord Wellington, or for the Horse Guards—not until I can name names.”

“Heaven help us! Do you suspect there is more than one of these—er—heartless scheming murderers? And in this rural backwater? Whatever do you envision? A peasant uprising?”

Jack smiled. “No, sir. The men involved are aristocrats, sad to say. I believe I have the identities of at least two of the varmints, and that our would-be buyer is the third.”

“And you will give their names to Wellington.”

“As soon as I have my proof, yes. And I think I know where to go to find it. Please don't look so horrified, sir. I won't disgrace us by slandering innocent gentlemen or making unfounded accusations, I promise.”

“I have every confidence in your abilities, but…” Sir Kendrick shook his handsome head; sighing, he stood and walked to stand with one hand on the mantel as he gazed down into the flames. After a moment, he said regretfully, “But try to look at the business objectively, my dear boy. Isn't it reasonable to suppose that Jones' death
was
an accident, just as the Coroner ruled? The gallery owner wasn't young, you said, and it's quite logical that he might have slipped on the ladder. As for the other incidents—well, one could theorize and ‘what if' and conjecture all night. I'll not dissuade you from doing what you believe is right. I only ask that you consider very carefully before you take action. If what you believe is truth, your life could very well be in danger.”

He turned and set his glass gently on a table, his smile holding a trace of sadness. “Now, I came down here to take that wretched bowl back to Preston Jones' family and demand redress. It's almost three o'clock, and I'd prefer not to drive in this fog after dark, so I'll be off.”

Jack came to his feet. “I don't think it's wise for you to take that bowl anywhere, sir. I know you think I'm quite mad, but—”

“Of course I do not!” Sir Kendrick gripped his shoulder and shook him gently. “You've gone through hell this past year. It's only natural you should feel the strain. You stay here and rest, my poor fellow. I'll be perfectly safe, I promise you. I've a brace of pistols in the coach, and Riggs is riding guard today; you know that rascal goes nowhere without his blunderbuss. So there's no cause for you to be anxious.”

“Less cause if I ride escort, at least part of the way. My errand lies in the same direction.”

“What d'you mean—your ‘errand'?” Frowning, Sir Kendrick exclaimed, “Devil take it! You're going after your alleged ‘proof'!”

“I am, sir. But it's purely a preliminary search. Nothing that will involve battle and sudden death, I promise you.”

“Dammit!” said Sir Kendrick explosively. “Have you heard nothing I've said to you? John, I'll be blunt. You've been very ill. Your imagination has got the best of you. I will
not
have you endangering yourself with—with whatever you mean to maudle about with! You hear me?”

Jack bowed. “If I'm imagining it all, there's no danger, is there, Father? Are you ready? I'll ring for your coach.”

Sir Kendrick swore.

Within five minutes the great coach was at the front entrance, the coachman on the box, the horses stamping impatiently at the cobblestones and blowing puffs of steam to mingle with the chill misted air. The liveried guard held the door wide while he waited to assist Sir Kendrick up the step, and Thornhill followed the baronet, carrying the box that held the enamel bowl.

On the upper landing of the old manor, Jack slipped his new pistol into the pocket of his travelling coat, then started down the stairs. Gradually, the silence intruded on his troubled thoughts. It was deathly still; no cheerful voices of his friends to ring out from belowstairs, no blithe birdsongs, no sounds of Strickley hammering in the barn, or the occasional crashes as Peg tripped or dropped things. Indeed, the mists seemed to have penetrated the house so that even the creaking of the treads was muted. And how dark it was getting. One might suppose it to be dusk instead of only a little past three o'clock.

An odd unease touched him. He settled the high-crowned hat at a defiantly jaunty angle on his head, forgetting that Sir Kendrick frowned on what he termed “unseemly frivolity”. When he returned his hand to the banister rail, it was like ice. He halted. Few things so irked his father as to be kept waiting, but suddenly he scarcely dared to draw a breath and was straining his ears to hear … what? It was
too
cold!
Too
dark! It went against nature. This couldn't be happening. But he could hear something now. It would be stupid to look around. Whatever moved so stealthily on the landing behind him was probably quite normal and ordinary. Corporal, perhaps. But the dog had scarcely left Sir Kendrick's side since his arrival, and was probably there even now.

He tried to walk on, only to be stunned into immobility as a rhythmical grating sound reached his ears. It sounded almost like—but, no! It
couldn't
be purring! How could it be a cat, when he had no cat, and sounding more like the purr of a lion than a house cat! His heart was hammering suffocatingly. If this was all in his mind, the hallucinations were becoming ever more real. The movements, the strange throaty sounds, were drawing nearer. He wouldn't look. He
dare
not look! But nor, when he tried to walk on, could he move. He'd never fancied himself a hero, but he'd hoped he had his share of physical courage. Yet now here he stood, paralyzed with fright! This, then, was what sheer unreasoning terror could do to a man. He gritted his teeth and fought for control. He was a Vespa, and Vespas didn't bow to fear. However ghastly Badajoz had been, he was damned sure Sherry wouldn't have played the coward. If Sir Kendrick could see him now.… Lord! He must make his craven legs obey him. He must face whomever—whatever crouched behind him.…

It took every ounce of his will-power, but he managed to turn his head.

The landing at the top of the stairs was pitch black. A corner of his mind whispered a dazed ‘In the middle of the afternoon?' Against that darkness he saw nothing at first. Then, the hairs on the back of his neck started to lift. Something
was
there! Something that watched him with two great unblinking yellow eyes. It wasn't a cat! It couldn't
possibly
be a cat! What cat ever had eyes of such a size, or stood three feet tall at the shoulders? But whatever it was, it was there! He blinked and it was still there! The need to escape was overpowering. Bathed in a cold sweat, he managed somehow to turn his back. He tottered down the steps, his knees weak under him, praying that terrible creature wouldn't come after him.

At the foot of the stairs, he clung to the end-post and forced himself to look again.

The landing was bathed in the grey afternoon light.

There were no yellow eyes.

There was no giant cat.

Tearing out his handkerchief, he mopped his wet face and tried to force his numbed mind to think rationally.

Distantly, he heard an impatient hail from the coach and reeled forward, hoping he didn't look as unnerved as he felt.

He had one foot on the threshold when the piercing yowl stopped him in his tracks.

Peg rushed out of the kitchen and lurched across the hall, tugging out her precious charms. “What
ever
was that?” she cried, her voice shaking. “I never heard no moggy make a noise like that!”

Vespa knew then.

He had seen the Alabaster Cat.

*   *   *

Broderick's eyes were narrowed and stern, and in spite of the drifts of vapour that at times became dense, he held his tall horse to a steady canter, driven by the guilty awareness that he should have returned two days ago.

En route to Salisbury, he had turned aside to call on his beloved for probably the last time. The cautious pebbles he'd thrown had brought Ariadne to her window, and she'd hurried to their illicit trysting-place in the shrubbery. It had been a wrenching meeting. His impassioned vow to obtain a special licence had been to no avail; she was under age. Abandoning honour, he'd begged her to accompany him to the Border; they would be married in Gretna Green. Ariadne had said tearfully that if he really loved her, he wouldn't ask her to invite such shame and condemnation. Besides which, she'd added with her adorable naïveté, she planned to have a very pretty wedding. Obviously believing herself deliciously wicked, she had shared his embraces and declared her undying love, but had remained immovable. She adored her brother and would not marry without Sir Larson's blessing. Heartsick, he had been left with no recourse but to bow to the inevitable, and wish her happiness.

His despair had reduced his darling girl to tears, but she'd overcome her grief bravely. In fact, as they'd said their farewells, she had seemed so restored to her usual sunny spirits that he'd been rather taken aback, until he'd realized she was making a truly noble attempt to conceal her grief. She had even enquired as to his plans and when he meant to return to Town, and, trying to match her courage, he'd told her of his quest. Ariadne was well acquainted in Salisbury and, eager to help, she'd given him the names of several ladies who were, she said, “the leading gossip-mongers of the town.”

He had left her then, and made his way to Salisbury, where he'd spent the night drowning his sorrows, and the next day paying the price. Not until this morning had he visited Ariadne's ‘gossips'. His belated efforts had borne fruit. True to Mr. Congreve's famous observation regarding ‘a woman scorned', the lovely Esmeralda Stokely had allowed fury to get the better of discretion until self-preservation had stilled her reckless tongue and she had fled, leaving the old town reeling with shock and scandal.

Broderick didn't like scandal, and he didn't like the looming consequences. He did like Jack Vespa, who was a good man and had enough in his dish just now. Still, it was better he should hear this from a friend than—

His horse gave a scared snort and shied wildly. Only Broderick's splendid horsemanship saved him from taking a toss. He roared a demand that the rapidly disappearing individual he had almost run down come back at once. He was ignored. Furious, he reined his mount into pursuit, shouting, “Stop, damn your eyes! Are you gone daft to—”

The fugitive crouched as he was overtaken, and turned a white and terrified countenance.